Pink Paperclips
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: "The time for pleasurable things is over". This story begins mid-S3 as Carol muses over her past and her present, wondering that such a world could still bring unexpected moments of pleasure and joy. This is a story of the hopeful qualities of human nature, and how hope can live side by side with sadness. Primarily Caryl, but general/drama fanfic as well.
1. Pleasurable Things

_The time for pleasurable things is over. _

Ed had grumbled that to Sophia, one afternoon at the camp outside Atlanta. Sophia had only wanted to use some colored chalk she, Carl and the other kids had found to draw on a ratty sheet of corrugated cardboard. Something to pass the time, to pass this strange war-like time: lots of sitting around waiting, somewhere between deadly bored and terrified.

"But, Daddy, I just…" she drifted off as Ed strode over, stomping on the chalk pieces, pulverizing them to purple dust. Sophia glanced at her, transmitting the familiar jumble of feelings – fear, broken love, childish defiance, sorrow – to Carol with a mere glance. The shorthand of the abused. Carol had barely nodded and Sophia had scampered away, towards the relative safety that existed outside their troubled family circle.

This world. This time. Had Ed been right? Was there no pleasure to be had anymore? Carol was beginning to think he was wrong, despite the daily horrors. She muses on this as she stands in the sun-blasted prison yard, baby Judith in her arms.

"You, sweet thing," she coos down at the baby's pink face, "You bring all of us a bit of pleasure." Judith rewards her with a gummy smile. _Pleasure, yes, _Carol thinks, _and fear of the future, fear of the world you've been born into. _She smiles weakly as the baby grasped her finger in a chubby hand.

But how was that any different than her Sophia? Her doomed daughter, come to such an end. But would it have been better if none of this had happened? Growing up with a cowering mother and a father whose hungry eyes had begun to express more than scorn and dislike as Sophia headed towards puberty? Something far more dangerous and damaging?

Carol didn't know. What she does know is that she relishes in the warm bundle of baby in her arms and the sun on her face. She doesn't know if she deserves to feel good about these things, but she does. Despite the bottomless ache in her mother's heart. Despite the roaming dead clawing at the fences.

The group was assembling now, to see Rick, Daryl, Oscar and this woman, this new warrior woman – _Michonne – _who had appeared like something out of a hero's epic, head out to find Maggie and Glenn, taken from them, this new family of Carol's.

Daryl stops at her side, grimy and grim. Catches her glance briefly; then his eyes dance away like bees, never lingering long. Afraid to stop moving, to rest on a flower. Perhaps, not ready for the sweetness that could be hidden there?

Carol smiles, following his gaze as he looks at the baby in her arms. Remembering his form looming up in the doorway a few days ago, larger than life, his hand roughly grasping her chin, like something in a dream.

"Stay safe," he mutters, another glance, and he's almost gone, buzzing on his way, restless energy.

"Nine lives, remember?" She smiles at him, something continuing to unfold in her heart. Something unexpected. Something she hadn't imagined would ever be a part of her life. As he walks away, she remembers something.

Back before Sophia, before Ed, before the world had narrowed to merely existing, she had gotten a job at travel agency. Just simple assistant work, typing letters, filing, faxing itineraries, ordering office supplies.

One morning, she had gotten to the office early, to unpack a large supply order. She moved quietly around the office, restocking pens, filing the copy machine with virgin white reams of paper, sticking thumbtacks into cork boards. She sat at her own small, desk and dumped a large box of paperclips into her desk organizer. There, amidst all of the thin silvery bends of metal, was one pink paperclip. Just one. Carol recalls laughing and snatching it up, delighted by its uniqueness among its brothers.

She had kept that pink paperclip in her wallet for a long time, remembering that the unexpected jolt of joy she had felt when she opened the box. Because it was different. Because it was there, completely unasked for, and it had made her smile.

As she watches Daryl stride across the dry prison yard, she remembers the pink paperclip – and what Ed said to Sophia that day so long ago. _"The time for pleasurable things is over". _ _No, _Carol thinks, hoisting Judith onto her shoulder. _No, not yet. Not as long as the world has a few pink paperclips. Not as long as we can be surprised, and find joy in small things. _It was still a world of hope.


	2. Ashes & Fritos

He resists the still-unusual-to-him urge to look back, to see if she's still gazing after him, to raise his hand in farewell. He is still unused to having a champion. He is still unused to _being_ a champion.

He thinks about those hazy days right after the fire. Sitting on a hard plastic chair in a hallway that smelt of stale bagged lunches and industrial cleaner, watching his ratty sneakers bounce up and off the chair's metal legs, as he kicked, and kicked. Someone had given him a bag of Fritos to quell his grumbling stomach, and his 8-year-old self gobbled them as if they were his last meal, greasing up his fingertips and lips. To this day, he can't stand the smell of them.

From the open office doorway, the low, insistent voice of his "caseworker" and her boss, a fat man with a weather-reddened face, discuss him. What to _do_ with him. Now that Momma's gone. She always said Virgina Slims would be the death of her. She was right. Momma with her beautiful eyes and crooked teeth. As apt to smack you upside the head as she was to give you a nicotine-infused kiss. It had just been the two of them those last eight months, with Merle in juvie.

With both Daddy and Merle gone, it had been…easier. Not what you'd call terrific, but easier. The neighborhood kids, they'd started letting him stand around and watch what they were playing. Without Merle to menace them, they even let him fetch stuff ("Hey, Daryl! Can you get us that ball there, in the shitpile?"), occasionally letting him join in.

Now, sitting in this grey-painted hallway, he strains to hear his future. "Not sure…17-year-old brother in the system...fostering might be difficult…attachment issues…" the young, sing-songy voice of the caseworker drifts out to him. _Attachment issues._

And now he understands, he thinks. What binds us to others? Everything he had been attached to burned to a crisp, gone in an instant, that spring day. Momma gone, completely. He had told Carl they had said it was better that way. Nothing left. Ashes.

The foster homes, he'd just floated through and been shifted in and out of for three years, until, one day, a 20-year-old stranger that sorta reminded him of his brother showed up and said he was takin' what belonged to him.

"Hey, baby brother!" Merle had cackled, slapping the legs of his dirty jeans. As if Daryl was a source of amusement. And without a thought, he followed him out the door and into the same life he had left in the ashes. Except Merle never kissed him, like Momma had. And he smoked Marlboros.

_Attachment issues. _Because now he understands. As he hurries after Rick and the others, part of him stays behind. He can feel it spinning out behind him, a long, silvery-grey (like her eyes) thread, back to where Carol is standing, urging him to turn around.

"Nine lives, remember?" She had half-smiled up at him, stroking a silky strand of hair off Li'l Asskicker's face. And part of him had wished for the excuse to do the same to her, but with her bare, shorn head the opportunity didn't present itself readily.

He wasn't sure how this woman had slipped into his clumsy heart. If he had thought about it at all, he would have said that all that was left of his heart was ashes, and the stale smell of Fritos. But it seems as if he was very wrong about that. And his clumsy heart is glad.


	3. Hello & Good-bye

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone for reading and reviewing this little story of mine. This is my first foray into TV show-based FF, having only ever done HP FF previously, and this is very different – and challenging. But I am a huge fan of quirky and unconventional relationships, and these two caught my eye amidst the zombie action. The actors play them beautifully. ~ CeeCee  
**

Daily life in post-zombie apocalypse came with many changes, but one of the most difficult ones for Carol had been the new flavor of good-byes. She thinks back to all of the good-byes from her old life: seeing Sophia off on the bus; a nod and a timid wave to Ed when he left for work; the casual sign-off when her distant, distracted mother got off the phone. She remembers reading stories of folks casually sending off their loved ones, never to see them again. A car accident. A heart attack while jogging. A piece of lunch lodged in a windpipe.

Now, there _were_ no casual good-byes. Each time any of their little group left could be the last time. You couldn't make something of it each and every time; life was too exhausting as it was. But everyone knew. They knew that when someone walked away, got on a bike or in a car, that could be it; you may never see that person again. You just lived with the constant, rolling feeling deep in your guts, only relieved once the person was back in your line of vision. And when they came back, _if_ they came back, your eyes scanned the group for missing numbers, like teeth gone from a familiar smile.

Carol stands by the makeshift laundry-line she's created in the inner prison yard. Dawn is just staining the horizon, pink seeping into the greyish blue above. Everyone else, including Judith and the newcomers Carl had stumbled upon, were still sleeping. _Complications, _Carol thought of them, _but not necessarily unwelcome complications. _They seemed harmless, but that was for Rick to decide. There was a time Carol wouldn't have relinquished decision making to him, but Rick had proven himself through the long, hard winter.

Her guts still had that familiar tumbling sensation; Rick, Daryl and the others hadn't returned overnight. She tried to tell herself it meant nothing. But of course, that wasn't possible. _Because it's not true. Something's happened, _Carol clipped a blue t-shirt of Maggie's to the line, wondering if she'd ever see the girl again.

"Up early," Hershel's voice startles her, and she drops a clothespin. He extends a large, worn hand and catches it, midair. Lithe, despite his age and missing limb.

"Good reflexes," she smiles, taking the pin from him, clipping it to the right sleeve of Maggie's shirt. Hershel's gaze rests there, and she knows he's thinking about his daughter.

"Hands still work, at least," he sighs, settles himself on his crutch. "No sign of them?" She shakes her head, her eyes instinctively sweeping the length of the fields outside the prison, her ears straining for a stray sound of human life, voices, a car engine. Nothing, except –

She gasps. Two forms. Coming out of the underbrush. Staggering, but not like walkers; like the wounded.

"Hershel!" She grabs his shoulder, points, "Who…?"

"My god, Maggie! It's Maggie, and Glen!" He's already swinging himself towards the gate, ready to fling it open.

"Hershel! _Hershel! _Wait, wait…we don't know, they may be..." she trails off. He's already sliding the gate open. She can see their faces more clearly now, their eyes bright and scared, but _alive. _Well, in Glen's case, it's one eye. The other's so swollen shut it's no wonder he's stumbling. Carol, familiar with such things, knows someone's given him a thorough beating.

Carol drops the clothespins and runs towards them, slinging a gun over her shoulder. _Just in case. _

Maggie's flung herself into her father's arms, sobbing. Hershel strokes her hair, his eyes roaming over her face and body, looking for bites, scratches. Glen is sliding the gate closed, looking grim.

Carol goes over to him, hugs him carefully, which he returns. His body is vibrating minutely; he seems feverish. She pushes him away, studies him closely.

"I need to clean those cuts, your face. Hershel ought to look at that eye," she's brisk and business-like, focusing on the task at hand. She can't think about the others. Rick. Daryl. _Oh, Daryl. Where are you?_

"Glen? C'mon," Carol begins leading him away.

"Where are you taking him?" Maggie cries shrilly, breaking away from her father. Carol quickly assesses the girl; she looks exhausted and terrorized, but physically unhurt.

"Maggie, I'm just going to clean him up. He's running a fever; some of those cuts may be infected. You need to rest, eat something. Then," she pauses, takes a deep breath, "then you'll have to tell us what happened."

"What happened? _I'll_ tell you what happened, Carol," Glen nearly shouts. "_Merle_. Merle happened. To us, to my face. Yep, that racist fucker is still alive and well, part of some psycho cult that gets kicks out of torturing people."

"Merle!" Carol's heart sinks. "Glen – but Daryl – does Rick…?" Her mind is racing. That was a good-bye that should have been permanent.

"Oh, Rick! Sure, our fearless leader, he's fine, having a powwow with the brothers Dixon in the forest," Glen's normally pleasant expression is twisted by pain, disgust and the abuse he's suffered at Merle's hand.

"We originally lost Daryl in the gunfight," Maggie spoke up. "But Rick and that woman went back for him while we waited outside town, in the woods. They came back a few hours later, with Daryl and his brother. Glen and I, we just –"

"I am NOT living with that redneck asshole! Rick, he thinks he can fix everything, but the man is _dangerous, _and doesn't care about _anyone _except Daryl!" Carol watches as Glen strides across the prison yard, Maggie running to catch up to him, support him.

"Merle? Hmm. Daryl's brother?" Hershel comes up next to her. "The one left for dead, who cut off his own hand and cauterized the wound?"

"Yes, him," Carol sighs, fighting back tears. _Daryl. I think we've said good-bye for the last time. _


	4. Points Unknown

**A/N: I feel the need to apologize in advance for Merle's racial epithets in this chapter (though I've "sterilized" them). I cringed writing them, but especially when recounting a twenty-three year old Merle, I deemed them apt and necessary to the character's story and development. **

The four of them stand in the small clearing like the four points of the compass:

Rick, the leader and guiding star, due north;

Michonne, lean, dark and silent, to the east, the rising sun blazing behind her, flanking him;

Merle, _Merle _goddammit, a dirty one-armed specter, to the west, still only darkness behind him; and

He, Daryl, always at the bottom of the pile, to the south, facing the man he'd secretly grown to care about like a brother, but standing closer – yes, much closer – to the brother he'd secretly been glad to bury, in his mind, at least. If not in his heart.

What had he felt mere hours ago, in that ring, that death arena, when he saw his brother again? Stumbling, terrified, fighting every step of the way, the filthy burlap sack over his face, all he was aware of was that his death was coming. And it wouldn't be a clean death, oh no; these people had the gleam in their eyes that came from taking pleasure in others' pain. Nothing personal, no; just the relief that it wasn't _them_ being fed to the lions.

Then, the sack ripped from his head, the hoarse shouts of the crowd and the lunatic calling himself the Governor ringing in his ears, the word "brother" hovering in the air. Everything else faded away when he saw Merle's face. Something squeezed his heart, and he was 11 years old again, gangly and unsure and desperate to please his older brother at any cost. If he lived long enough.

The crowd screaming for them to fight to the death, he back up slowly towards Merle, completely at a loss. Weaponless and in shock, Daryl had briefly wondered if that was how it was going to go down: murdered at Merle's hand. It had nearly happened before, more than half a lifetime ago.

Daryl had been fourteen, living with Merle in a two-room trailer that was more shack than house, on the outskirts of town, which was all whatever shady dealings Merle was involved in would support. He attended the eighth grade whenever he felt like it; or when the truant officer showed up. Neither of which was very often.

But sometimes, when the teenaged Daryl couldn't face another day in their ramshackle home, he'd go to school, drifting mindless through classes (except history; he actually enjoyed history), then take his third-hand bike and spin through the town, for hours on end.

One late-spring afternoon, he'd been pedaling past the public high school in the "nice" part of town. He slowed, drinking in the riches an excess of tax dollars bought: neat red brick buildings; a sodded track with tight packs of runners, lean and quick, sprinting in a clean oval; cheerleaders, terrifying and enticing in their blinding blue-and-white skirts, stretching their golden faces up to the sun.

But what made him stop, and straddle his bike in dumbfound fascination, had been the archery butts. A great expanse of field: on one end, the archers: taught, tense, graceful human triangles; on the other end: the giant bull's-eye, a swirl of white, blue and red. Every day for a week, he'd drop his bike and hang onto the fence, watching the arrows sail, sure and true, through the air, thwacking with sold thuds into the butts.

One archer, a girl, he noticed particularly; she was tall and slim, almost boyish. Her black hair pulled back from her face in a long ponytail. She hit the center of the bull's-eye. _Every_ time. And then one day, just as she seemed tensed and ready to release the arrow, she'd turned towards him, a smirk on her face. She came loping easily across the field, headed directly towards him. Daryl had quickly mounted his bike, ready to flee.

"Wait! You, with the bike! Where ya'll goin'?" She was at the fence now, and up close, her features were irregular and fascinating. Light brown skin, giant dark eyes and thick eyebrows. She was panting a little, smiled at him, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth. Daryl had wanted to disappear into the ground.

"Can'tcha talk? You've been watchin' us for days now. You shoot?" She rested her bow on the ground, leaned on the fence. "You go here?" Indicating the high school.

"No," he'd muttered to his feet.

"No to the archery or to the school?" She had laughed an easy laugh, the laugh of someone who'd never been walloped upside the head. "Here, jump that fence. I'm Tisha. I'll show you."

Daryl had done as she said without a thought. Amazed that it could be that easy. Here was a girl. She was smiling at him. Offering to show him something he was desperate to learn.

And he _did_ learn. The power and safety he felt, the satisfaction of pulling the bow up and back, releasing, the arrow flying in the air, gave him a giddy sense of exhiliration. As did Tisha: fifteen, coltish, half a head taller than he. He'd taken small sips of her appearance, stealing glances at her when she wasn't paying attention. For an hour each afternoon, five days a week, Daryl felt as if he _belonged _somewhere.

But then: one evening right before the school year ended. He and Tisha were finishing up; the light was fading fast and it had been pointless to continue.

"Good job today, Daryl," Tisha grinned at him, packing up the equipment, which belonged to the school. _Her_ school.

"Thanks," he cleared his throat, preparing himself. _I must be batshit crazy. She's FIFTEEN. And rich! _ "Tisha, I was wondrin' if ya might wanna go grab an ice cream or something…" he trailed off, aware of his burning ears and cracking voice.

But. But she was smiling at him. "Why, Daryl, I was just thinkin' it was taking you 'bout forever to ask," she smirked that smirk at him, and something loosened in his chest. "Just let me put this stuff away." She strode quickly towards the gym and he stared after her, fingering the five bucks he'd scraped together if such a miracle had occurred as it just did.

He rocked back and forth on his heels in the darkening summer evening, grinning foolishly. He let out a small whoop (careful she shouldn't hear) and spun around. And that's when he saw him. Standing by his bike at the fence. A hazy shape in a white t-shirt and torn jeans.

"Daryl. What are you doin', boy?" Merle. How?

"Merle, I –" His older brother had closed the gap between them in less than 30 seconds. Before Daryl realized what was happening, he was knocked to the ground, winded. Merle loomed over him, kneeling on his elbows. The pain was excruciating.

"What the fuck do you think you're doin'? I am only gonna ask you one more time!" Merle's hand, stinking of tobacco, across his face.

"Merle, I was just –" Daryl struggled fruitlessly. He knew what this was about. He didn't understand his brother's fury and hatred, but he knew.

"What'chu doin' with that disgusting half-breed, huh, baby brother?" Another smack, on the other cheek. "Don't 'chu know any better? You lay down with dogs, Daryl, you wake up with fleas." Another smack. Another. Daryl was just happy he wasn't using his fists. Yet.

"Tisha's not a _dog_, Merle, she's a girl, and I like her, goddammit. Get off, please, Merle, get off me," he was sobbing now, tasting blood and snot in the back of his throat. He struggled to sit up so he wouldn't choke on the disgusting mixture.

"Oh, Tisha, is it? Well then, I guess that's just fine and dandy, my god, Daryl, what have I done wrong? I've tried to raise you up like Momma and Daddy would have wanted!" And lordy, he sounded _happy._ Happy to be beating the shit out of his little brother in the middle of a near-dark field.

"What the hell is going on here?" Tisha's voice. Frightened, and unsure.

"Tisha, go, get out of here," Daryl could just see her over Merle's shoulder, which was blotting out the world. Which was the world.

"That's right, Tisha, n***er-girl, get outta here, and leave my little brother alone," Merle stood, and Daryl's lungs wept in relief.

Tisha hid her terror well, he thought. "I'm calling the police." And she disappeared into the gloom. Daryl never saw her again.

"Now. We can get down to business," Merle's smiling face looming over him. The world. He remembered nothing after that. One minute, he was laying on the warm grass of the archery butts, the next, it was three days later, and Merle was ruffling his hair, feeding him milkshake after milkshake (which was all Daryl's swollen mouth could handle) promising him a trip to the whorehouse the minute he was "feelin' better". As if he was sick with the flu or something. He was sick, alright.

And now. Now they all stand there, in the clearing. The blood brother, whose eyes showed love and fear in that ring, who had never had the chance to prove it he's do it again: try to take Daryl's life. Because this other man, this man of honor, had come in, gas grenades flying. And Merle had been rescued right along with Daryl, by a man who'd nearly replaced him in Daryl's heart, and a woman he'd spit at if he'd seen her on the street.

What had he said to Carol, about the Cherokee Rose? "I'm smart enough to know there's no rose bloomin' for my brother". But there was no flower as beautiful and fragile as hope. And Daryl, he hopes now. He hopes that Merle can learn the honorable way of things.

Rick finally breaks the silence that's been held since Glenn and Maggie left for the prison.

"Ok. This is how things are gonna go down." And Daryl waits. He waits for his future, in points unknown.


	5. Clean Wounds

Carol tries to focus on the task at hand, as the early morning sun washes in through the high prison windows. Sitting on a chair across from Glenn, in the cell he shares with Maggie, Carol clears her mind. _One thing at a time¸_ she reminds herself. _If you want a good cry, you can have it. _She bargains with herself. _But not here; these people need you right now. You are their mother, their nurse. They have no one else. _

She dabs gently at Glenn's swollen eye with an alcohol-soaked ball of cotton, well aware of who gave him this injury. He winces away from it.

"Less painful cleaning it up than getting it," Carol murmurs, "Right?" Allows a small grin to turn up one side of her mouth, hoping Glenn responds in kind, rather than with a resurgence of anger.

"Yeah, I guess," he turns instinctively towards the bunk, where Maggie, her ribcage moving rhythmically up and down, sleeps the sleep of the utterly exhausted. The couple relayed what this lunatic called the Governor had done…or started to do. Carol wishes she couldn't understand it. But she does. Because there will always be people who thrive on, live for, others' pain and suffering. There's no sense to it. It just is.

"Almost done," she spends some time washing the dirt and grit out of the wounds around Glenn's nose and mouth. "It's no fun, but I gotta clean 'em, Glenn. Nothing worse than a dirty wound." It was one of the first things Hershel had driven into her, when she volunteered to learn. To help with Lori's labor. All instruments, clean. All incisions, clean. All wounds – flush out the dirt, the grit, the potential toxins. So the healing can begin.

"Thanks, Carol," Glenn takes her hand. She places a small white pill in his. He raises his eyebrows.

"A mild sleep aide," she responds. Hershel and she had culled them from the prison's supply. Not something you'd normally want to rely on in a zombie apocalypse, but Glenn has earned 6 or 7 hours uninterrupted sleep. _Real_ sleep.

"Yeah, okay," Glenn washes it down with a glass of water, stands, moves towards the bunk, pauses. "Carol. We can't have Merle here. You know that, right?" His voice is low and urgent.

"I don't know much, Glenn. But I know that Rick will figure something out," Carol doesn't see the point in adding fuel to Glenn's fire. He needs to rest. _One thing at a time._

"Daryl is better without Merle. Stronger," Glenn's words are blunt, but true.

"Yes," Carol stands, "Yes. But the past is hard to let go of. Especially these days." She walks to the doorway of the cell. "Rest, Glenn. You need it." He's already climbing in next to Maggie, his eyes drooping closed.

Carol walks back, drapes a thin blanket over the couple, and leaves them quietly, to dream.

She heads towards the main area of the cellblock, deep in thought.

"Dad!" Carl's voice cuts through her reverie. She quickens her pace, her heart thumping. Rick stands in the center of the room, his hand on Carl's be-hatted head. Michonne next to him, looking fiercer than ever.

Beth and Hershel, who are breakfasting at one of the tables, look expectantly at him. Hershel wipes his whiskers with a napkin.

"Oscar? Daryl?" Hershel pauses, contemplates, "Merle?"

"That man's no good," Michonne mutters.

Rick's face hardens slightly. "How's Glenn? Maggie?" Directs this at Carol.

"Glenn'll be fine. Cleaned out his wounds, so there should be no infection. He's resting now…with Maggie. They both just need some rest," Carol sighs. Waiting to be told. Waiting for something.

"That's good. Let them sleep," Rick nods. "Oscar didn't make it. We lost him early on in the firefight. I'm sorry," he says to Axel, who's been sitting, unnoticed, in the corner.

Judith begins to fuss, and Carol moves to pick the infant up. For something to do, a place to focus her energy. Her heart. Beth gets there first, scooping the baby into her arms. Rick walks over to his daughter, touches her soft cheek.

"Dad, there's new people. I found them," Carl pipes up.

"Is that so?" Rick looks down at his son. "Where are they? They alright, you reckon?"

"I put them over there," Carl gestures. "They seem okay, but I told them they couldn't come in here until you got back. That was right, wasn't it Dad?" Rick nods, Carl beams.

Carol cannot contain her agitation any longer. She walks over to Rick, leans in towards him. "I'm glad you're back. But…Daryl?"

He looks at her. "In the yard. With Merle. We'll all need to sit down and talk later, but I thought it best that they stay out there for now. And…these new people?" He looks at her.

"They seem alright, actually. Head of the group, big guy named Tyrese. Calm and collected. You'll like him, I think," Carol says, itching to run. Run into the yard. Run to Daryl. _But no. Wait. There is nothing there but hope. Not yet._

"Good. Guess I better go talk to them. Let's try and get everyone together around lunch time. Including Daryl and Merle. Carol," Rick pauses. "We need Daryl. The group needs him. And now, Merle comes along with him. Merle has his uses too. This Governor character –"

"He's no good, either," Michonne interrupts.

"Well, fight fire with fire, I say. Merle can help in that regard," Rick retorts. Michonne remains stony.

Carol heads towards the prison yard, and Daryl. Knowing that his wounds won't be as easy to clean as Glenn's. Knowing that the deeper they run, the easier it is for infection to worm its way down. Deep. But she's learned a thing or two over the past year, including how to heal. And hopefully, how to help heal.


	6. Breakfast of Champions

**A/N: This fic was getting pretty angst-y, so here's to lightening it up a bit. After reading (and ADORING) the latest chapter of LouBlue's "Echoes" fic (if you haven't read it, hightail it over there and do so, stat!), I was reminded that the new-and-improved Carol is pretty sassy. Here's to the new Carol. ;-) ~CeeCee**

"What are we doin' here, Daryl?" Merle's raspy voice cuts through the utter silence in the prison yard. "We don't need these people. Besides, the Governor's comin' for them, after what that ni-"

"_Merle._ Goddammit, shut up a second," Daryl looks down, agitated, at his older brother, who's leaning against a brick outbuilding, seemingly relaxed and unworried about anything.

Daryl stares at him for a moment, realizing what Merle's doing. It's so obvious, so clear to him now, as it was in that moment of clarity on the archery butts twenty years ago: Merle is the world. Merle is supposed to be _Daryl's_ whole world. "_I giveth, and I can taketh away_". Everything, good and bad, is supposed to come from Merle.

"You ain't god, Merle," Daryl mutters through clenched teeth.

"What did you say?" Merle gets to his feet, moves smoothly in towards him. And dammit, Daryl flinches back, waiting for it. For punishment from the gods. "What the hell's happened to you, baby brother? You gone soft? Man, these people, I swear, these people -"

"Just saved your life, in case you hadn't noticed," a clear, pert voice cuts through Merle's grating one, and both men step instinctively back from each other and turn towards the source. Carol. Bright-eyed and smiling at him. As if Merle wasn't even there. Something light and buoyant bounces in the middle of his stomach. He's just so damned glad to see her. She held out two tin prison plates of rehydrated scrambled eggs to them.

Merle backs away, slouches back down against the wall. "Give it here, girl," he demands.

Daryl's about to say something, all the while hungrily shoveling in eggs and hungrily drinking in the sight of Carol, so familiar, so dear, in the morning sun. She catches his eye, smiles a little, shakes her head.

"Of course, your highness," She places it carefully in front of Merle, adjusting the placement of the fork on the plate. And he realizes what Carol must have a few seconds before him. Merle _needs_ to sit down to eat, being one-handed. She spared him the embarrassment of having to admit it.

Merle suddenly looks at her with interest. "Carol, right? How's that cute little girl of yours?"

Carol's smile falters a little, but she straightens up, looks Merle directly in the eye. "Sophia's dead."

"Sorry to hear that," Merle says, and Daryl actually believes him. Merle's got a great big heart, when it comes to cute, blond, white little girls. Just not so much for his brother, or anyone with a skin tone other than his own. "You and your husband must be broken up about it."

"Ed's dead, too," Carol says, in a very different voice. She steps away from Merle, folds her arms reflexively around her midsection.

"Wellnow, I guess that makes you a free agent," Merle eyes her up and down. Something twists in Daryl's guts, and suddenly, he's no longer very hungry.

"Yes, they're linin' up around the corner, with flowers and chocolates," Carol drawls. "Nothin' like being newly single in a zombie apocalypse."

"Ain't you a little spitfire," Merle assesses her. "Don't remember that about you."

"We're all entitled to change a little, aren't we, Merle?" She seems to have bounced back from his inquiries about her family. She walks over to Daryl, suddenly closer than she's been all morning. She smells like soap and light sweat.

"Take that for you?" Her voice softens, no longer teasing and sharp, as she was with Merle. He hands her his plate, and his fingers brush hers. He has to resist the sudden, insane urge to throw the plate to the ground and pull her close. Not that he's got any idea of what he would actually do once he got her there, mind you.

He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, thanks," she pulls it out of his hand and something dancing in her grey eyes tells him his thoughts aren't completely secret. She walks over to Merle, takes his plate. She pauses for a moment, opens her mouth, shuts it, then quickly squats down, placing the plates on the dusty ground.

"Let me see your arm," she says to Merle. They all know which one she's talking about. Daryl, moves closer, bending down next to her.

"What the hell you need to see my arm for, woman?"

She sighs, "Look, what you did? I mean, what you were able to stand," she stops for a second, collecting her thoughts. "Merle, it's practically a miracle you didn't bleed out, honestly."

"No thanks to you people," he chimes in.

"We went back for you, dammit," Daryl blazes at his brother. "And not just me. Rick, T-Dog…"

"Okay. Okay," Carol interrupts. "Merle, give me your arm." For some reason, he doesn't resist her. She takes his mangled limb with its rigged-up metal contraption-cum-weapon on the end and examines it closely.

Daryl takes the time to look at her uninterrupted, intent and intense, running her fingers along the edge of the metal, where it abuts Merle's forearm. Daryl can see now that the friction of constant movement has worn a ridge of irritated, scabbed skin in an angry red line. _Must hurt like a bitch, _Daryl thinks with vague satisfaction he'd never admit. He eyes dart back up to Carol's face.

"See, here?" She's speaking to Merle, but a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. Daryl wonders if he's been caught. "You're wearing the skin down with daily, repetitive motions. You keep breaking it open; it never gets a chance to heal. You'll get an infection if we don't take care of it."

"Are you playin' doctor now, then, woman?" Merle rips his arm out of her grasp.

"Is that an invitation, Merle?" He guffaws. _She's playing him. Keepin' it light. And it's working. _Daryl marvels at this woman, who, a year ago, brokenly put a pickax through her abusive husband's filthy skull. Who, a few turns of the calendar ago, he held back in her desperate attempt to get to her lifeless daughter's wasted body.

"Maybe so, maybe so," Merle rubs the metal contraption with his good hand. "Gotta admit, you're right. You can fix this up for me? Don't fancy losin' any more of this arm."

"Yes, I can. Or Hershel. We'll fit it up with some moleskin and antibiotic cream. You'll have to be diligent, change the dressing daily. Can you handle that?" She stands, scooping up the empty breakfast plates.

"Woman, I cut my own hand off!" Merle sneers at her. "I can handle cleanin' a bandage." He considers her for a second. "'Less you wanta do it for me ev'ry mornin'."

"As enticing as that is, Merle, I'll pass. Rick wants you both to come in for lunch. There's some new folks here; seem ok, Carl found 'em," she answers Daryl's unasked question, continues. "We also need to figure out what we're gonna do about this Governor –"

Merle laughs, slaps the ground. "You people really haven't got a _clue_, do you? He's gonna chew you people up and spit out the bones."

"You gotta wake up, Merle," Daryl's finally had it. "There's no 'you people' anymore. You're part of this group again. Whatcha gonna do, run back to the psychopath with one eye, so he can cut off your other arm? Your choice: the people who went back for you, or the crazy motherfucker who wanted to watch you kill your own brother. Your own flesh and blood, Merle." He can feel Carol standing behind him, feel her presence, that fine cord attaching them.

Merle holds his gaze for a moment, surprised. "Take it easy, little brother. Didn't mean nuthin' by it. It's just ya'll don't know what that man's capable of, is all I'm sayin'".

"Then I guess you'll come in handy then, won't you, Merle? Make up what you did to Glenn?" Carol says.

"I didn't mean that Chinaman no harm, ya know. I mean, it wasn't personal."

"I believe Glenn is Korean, but that's good to know. I mean, that you beat the crap out of him and it wasn't personal. See you both later, at lunch" she shakes her head, turns away, once again, and starts walking back towards the prison.

"Isn't she the damndest woman?" Merle says.

"Yeah, she is," Daryl spots a fork in the dust around his feet, snatches it up, jogs towards Carol's retreating form. "You dropped this."

She turns, and he places it on the top plate. "Thanks." She smiles at him, that wide, open smile she has. Her face gets serious for a moment. "Real glad you're back." She places her free hand on his bicep and he reflexively tenses. She let's go too soon.

"Oh, and Daryl?" Now she's grinning, with trouble behind it. _Sweet to spicy in thirty seconds flat, _he thinks. She's making him so _jumpy_ this morning. "Didn't your momma ever tell you? It's not polite to stare."

"My momma never really taught me much of anything," he mutters, feeling his face get warm. The memory of her hand still lingers on his arm.

"Well, see, that's it," she sounds like she's trying not to laugh. "You just need a little female…instruction. Let me know if you ever wanna play doctor."

And then she's gone, with another grin. Damn her.


	7. Bodily Functions

**A/N: I will refresh my expressions of gratitude to all readers, followers, favorite-rs and reviewers. I really enjoy your feedback and insight. This chapter kinda just happened on its own, and I'm pleased with it, mostly because I think I'm heading into at least two, if not three, chapters of action, blood, guts, gore and war. Wanted to give these two a few more moments of levity and fun before dumping all that on them. ~ CeeCee.**

Carol looks down at Judith, whose diaper she's changing on her bunk. She never thought she'd get used to sleeping in a prison cell, but she has. She wonders now if they'll be able to stay in the prison. As unreal as it seems, their little group of survivors appears to be heading into a war with the living, in addition to the daily battles they face with the dead.

She can hear everyone gathering in the main area of the cell block, for what she's mentally referring to as "Rick's Testosterone Brain Trust" with a wry grin. With the addition of Merle and the new folks, especially the calm but beefy Tyrese, the groups got the biggest injection of male hormones it's seen since Shane died.

"What a world, baby girl," she snaps Judith's onesie, hefts her up, inhales her sweet smell of formula and baby powder. "Nothin' smells as nice as babies," Carol declares to the infant, who responds by belching up a glut of spit-up. She laughs, grabs a spare tee shirt off the floor, and mops up her shoulder. "That'll learn me," she mutters.

"You finished?" She asks the baby, wiping off her dimpled chin. Judith responds, with a smaller burp and a string of spittle. Carol laughs harder, starts cleaning her off. Judith chuckles heartily in response, hiccupping out more and more puke onto herself and Carol. She rubs Judith's back, holds the already soiled shirt up to her mouth, hoping the fit will pass.

Carol remembers telling her own mother she was pregnant with Sophia. Her mother, remote, judgmental at the best of times, stared at her, eying the relatively fresh bruise on her cheek, courtesy of Ed. Flinty grey eyes, the same color as Carol's, assessed her through a haze of cigarette smoke. _Hope you find shit and puke entertaining, _her mother had finally said.

_Well, Mom, it CAN be pretty funny, _she thinks as Judith gives one last heave.

"Okay? Okay," she says, grabbing a fresh onesie. "Time to start over, hmm?" She unsnaps the baby's soiled outfit, starts worming it over her head, trying to avoid getting any of it in Judith's fine hair, tosses the dirty clothing on the floor. She's just snapped Judith into a clean outfit when a shadow falls over her shoulder.

"How's Li'l Asskicker doin'?"

"Very pukey this morning," Carol responds, grinning up at Daryl. He seems a little startled at this response. "We're working on outfit number two."

"Rick's gettin' everyone together now," he says, his eyes bouncing between her and the baby.

"And Merle?" She asks.

"Hershel's takin' a look at his arm now," he pauses, considers something. "Though he asked specifically for you."

"Glad Hershel can help him out," she means this. _Anything to reestablish bonds._ _We're in this all together. _"I wasn't too interested in playing doctor with Merle, anyway."

"Oh, knock it off," he grunts, crossing his arms.

But she can't help herself. Daryl reminds her of those few fumbling boys from high school, before Ed came into and took over her life. All unsure and sweet under the gruff, manly exterior, never knowing where to look and for how long. It makes Carol feel so damned _hopeful_, in a way she hadn't since Sophia staggered out of that barn.

"Here, take her for a minute," she hands the now-clean Judith to Daryl, who unfolds his arms willingly. Another surprise from her favorite squirrel-hunting, cantankerous redneck: he loves babies.

"She gonna puke on me?" He's jiggling the baby comfortably in his arms, and Judith seems pretty content.

"Maybe. Never know with babies," she's gathering up all of her and Judith's soiled clothing from around the cell, realizing the shirt she's wearing is rather – pungent- with baby vomit. She scoops up a new tee shirt, considers for a second, grins - _pink paperclips – _and lifts the dirty shirt over her head in a graceful motion, intentionally not looking at him. _Not anything more than you'd see at the beach, anyway._

"They're bound to surprise you a little bit each day." She keeps talking, her voice casual, as she throws on the clean shirt. She can feel his eyes. Their heat hitting her scrawny, middle-aged body. It's such a strange feeling, this still-innocent desire. Nothing about it mangled, beaten or broken. Such an unexpected gift.

She turns back to the cell's doorway, where he's now studiously studying Judith, whose head is lolling sleepily onto his shoulder. His face is slightly reddened, and she feels a touch guilty. But…not _that_ guilty. She doesn't know how this will all play out. Hell, she doesn't know if both or either of them will be alive this time tomorrow.

"You've got the touch," she's careful not to tease. She eases the now-sleeping Judith out of his arms.

"Yeah. Case ya hadn't noticed, she didn't barf on me at all," the start of a grin twitches at the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe there's a few things I could learn from you, in that case." She holds his gaze for a long second.

"You guys comin'?" Maggie appears from around the corner, looking decidedly more rested than she had earlier in the day. "Rick's about to start".

"Yep, comin'," _Testosterone Brain Trust, _Carol thinks again, grinning to herself.

"Whaddya smilin' about?" Daryl's tone is accusatory, but doesn't hold any real malice. "Not much to be grinnin' about, y'know. Ya think Merle's tough, you oughta see this Governor. Complete psychopath." He's pulled up next to her, and she's very aware of the spots where their bodies almost touch.

"I know," she responds, shrugs. "I know. I'm not a fool. I know we're on the edge of something truly dangerous, and I don't like the thought of fighting real, live people at all. But…but, I don't know. Bein' happy, even for a moment? I think that's hope. I think that's what makes us human. I can't, and don't want to, give that up".

He's staring at the sleeping child in her arms. When she finishes, he looks up at her. "No, you're not a fool, Carol. No one would ever accuse ya of that." He reaches a finger out to stroke Judith's cheek, and brushes her arm on the way there.

He clears his throat, staring solely at the baby. "Might be…might be, if we come back from all'a this alive. Might be," the words struggle from his mouth. "Might be I'll need some doctorin' of my own." He glances at her, his eyes resting on, then quickly buzzing away from, hers. He hurries away from her down the hall towards the sounds of the group gathering together.

_Pink paperclips, _she thinks again, smiling, and follows him.


	8. War Room

**A/N: This is what I would call a "bridge chapter". It's not super exciting, angst-y, romantic or juicy. But…bridges are necessary, no, to get us over the water to where we need to go? Same here. This will take my readers where they need (and hopefully want!) to go. **

**The best thing for me, in writing this chapter, is I see how this story is going to play out. It will have five chapters after this one, making it a (lucky) 13 chapters long. Lots of action and zombie (and maybe Governor) slaying in the next two chappies, and the last three to resolve this Caryl story before February 10****th**** comes and messes up my plan. ;) **

**I have never been a songfic person, either reading or writing them (nothing against them, I just never got into them), but while I was writing the past two chapters, Ray LaMontagne's "Hold You in My Arms" came on my Pandora station, and I was forcefully struck by how readily it applied to this unusual, wounded, yet hopeful couple, and the final three chapters of this li'l story of mine will be inspired by the three verses of the song. It's beautiful, and the lyrics haunting. I hope you all like it, when it comes to that. ~ CeeCee**

He hurries down the hall, more out of necessity than desire. He has to focus on the battle before them, not concern himself with the sight of her bare, curved back as she flipped that tee shirt over her head, or wonder what it might feel like to run his hands over the slight bumps of her spine.

_Jesus, get it together, man,_ he avoids catching her eye as she joins him in the main room. She hands Judith over to Beth, brushing the sleeping baby's cheek, a secret smile playing on her lips. She takes a spot slightly to the left of him in the now-crowded main area, standing near Glenn and Maggie.

He feels a rush of guilt seeing Glenn's battered face afresh, but tries to shake it off. _Can't make apologies for Merle anymore. _He distracts himself by looking around the room, at both the familiar faces and new ones.

Hershel, looking like a worn-out Father Christmas, is holding Merle's metal contraption in his hand, examining it. Merle, looking surly and uncomfortable, slouches next to him, the stump of his arm covered in clean bindings. He raises his eyebrows at Daryl, who nods in greeting. It's no wonder Merle's mood has shifted from this morning's playful flirting to tense: unlike Carol, the majority of the group is staring at the elder Dixon brother with barely concealed dislike. And, in the case of Glenn and Michonne, something approaching hatred.

Unable to help himself, he glances at Carol. She's whispering intently with Glenn, who's getting agitated, staring with open hatred at Merle. Daryl braces himself for some sort of outburst, but whatever Carol says to Glenn seems to calm him down. His hands, curled into fists at his side, slowly open and relax. Maggie, who's listening to their exchange, places her arm around Glenn's waist, leans her head on his should.

_Looks so easy, _the thought flashes unbidden through his mind; he briefly, crazily, wonders what it would be like to feel Carol's hand on his side, the weight of her head on his shoulder. Carol catches him looking, smiles. _Goddamn woman._ He's saved from his own roiling thoughts (and hormones) by Rick's powerful voice cutting through the room's murmurs.

"Ok, ya'll know why I brought you here," Rick starts. "We've got some trouble comin' right at us, and we need to work together." He places just enough emphasis on the last word to make himself clear.

"Way I see it, we gotta go back and strike before this Governor and his crew recover from our last attack," Rick pauses, looks around the room. "And before they can come here and wreak havoc."

"They know where we are?" Beth pipes up, holding the baby in her arms more tightly. Daryl's not surprised, but some of the others seem to be.

"Beth, honey, I am so sorry, but I had to tell 'em," Maggie's eyes are welling up and she's shaking. "They were – were gonna kill Glenn! I could hear them through the walls, I didn't know what was happening," she was sobbing in earnest now, her face collapsing in guilt and fear.

Glenn wraps his arms around her, glaring at Rick, then at Merle. Then his eyes find Daryl, and there's a question there, maybe one Daryl doesn't want to think to hard about. _How could you? _ _How could you bring him back here? _

"They weren't never gonna kill him," Merle's standing up now. Daryl sidles closer towards his brother. This could go downhill. And fast.

"Oh, sure, you piece of shit! You were just gonna maim me permanently, right? Just like that psycho wasn't gonna rape Maggie, or he wasn't gonna make you kill Daryl?" Glenn's enraged now, letting go of Maggie, who falls into Carol's arms, heading towards Merle blindly. Daryl reaches to Merle just before he lunges, wraps him in a tight grip.

Tyrese, the big, calm guy with the beard, gets to Glenn. "Hey man. Don't do it. Not worth it."

"What the fuck do you know?" Glenn barks back, but he seems calmer.

Merle is still tense in Daryl's grip. "Let go'a me, Daryl, if you know what's good for you." He hisses. Daryl squeezes tighter.

"Nope, not yet," he grits through his teeth.

"Well, I know there's, uh, some _strife_, among some of you folks, but I also know now may be the time for bygones, since what's comin' at you all – and me and my people, since we're fallin' in with you, after talkin' with Rick here – is a helluva a lot worse than a beatin'."

"Tyrese is right; we gotta work together on this, or we're goners," Rick nods at Daryl, who releases Merle. Daryl knows he'll pay for it, somehow, later. _Merle's not god. Remember that. _He glances over at Carol again, who's still stroking Maggie's hair and that balances him.

"As I see it," Rick begins again, over the general din created by the scuffle, "As I see it, we've got two groups: those goin' back to Woodbury meanin' me, Daryl, Merle, Maggie and Michonne, and those stayin' here, which is the rest of you. Those comin' with me –"

"But we can't stay here! They're coming for us!" Beth's worried voice cuts through Rick's.

"Beth, ya'll should be safe here; the prison is pretty protected, and is certainly the safest place to hunker down in from a defensive perspective –" Rick's making sense, but Daryl has another concern.

"Yeah, okay, but what if they get through the fences? They got military trucks, maybe grenades, other explosives. They gotta go somewhere else, Rick. This place's compromised," Daryl doesn't want to add discord, but he wants that baby safe. And Carol. Always Carol.

"Ya'll should be listen' to my baby brother," Merle's voice rasps against Daryl's frayed nerves. "He knows of what he's talkin'. Go'vnor takes offense pretty seriously. That man's armed to the gills."

Rick rubs his face tiredly. "Alright, alright. You've convinced me. Those stayin' behind need to find a place to hunker down, for at least a few days. Maybe you all can go to that church up the road a bit, or maybe -"

"No, Dad," Carl breaks in, thoughtful. "No, Dad, we can't tell you where we're goin', don'tcha see? If we tell ya, it'll be like Maggie, with Glenn – sorry Maggie, I'm not sayin' you did anything wrong, it's just…" he trails off, unsure.

"Carl's right," Carol speaking out to the group for the first time. "The group staying here, we'll have to decide without telling any of ya'll where we're going. They could torture our location out of you, if you're caught."

"Then how the hell we supposed to find ya, when we come back?" Daryl's fighting a panicky sense of never seeing her again. _I've already buried you once. _

"Easy enough," Tyrese says. "Someone in our group - me, Sasha, Carol, Glenn – will come back three days from now, at dawn, hide in the underbrush. And do that every morning after that for, I don't know, five days. We'll scope it out, see if the place has been taken by the other side. If you guys are back, make it clear that you're here. Someone keep watch in the prison yard, or somethin'."

"Sounds about right," Rick seems relieved. "Those comin' with me, get your weapons, ammunition. Time to go. We'll discuss strategy on the way."

oooooOOOOOooooo

They're all gathered in the prison yard, to see Rick's group off. Daryl feels like, sometimes, all he ever does is leave, heading into more danger. Time bending back on itself, to repeat the mistakes he's already made. He looks at Merle, standing slightly away from the group, his presence grudgingly, if not warmly, accepted. _Makin' the same mistakes, leaves you with…nuthin' but ashes. _

Glenn and Maggie are in a tight embrace. Daryl understands why Rick wants her to come along: to validate whatever Merle tells them about the structure of the Governor's posse. She was there, and she's trusted. Merle isn't. And the group staying behind will need Glenn's quiet leadership. Tyrese seems pretty alright to Daryl, but he's not valued and trusted by the group like Glenn.

Carol's standing off to the side, watching the young couple whisper urgently to each other. He walks over to her, wanting to say something, but everything gets stuck in his rusty throat.

"Be safe," she smiles ruefully at him. "Be safe – and come back." And, oh so gently, she caresses his face. He flinches instinctively, but she does it again and he stills himself. Let's himself enjoy the contact on his whiskery cheek. She drops her hand to her side, tears brightening her eyes. "Go ahead, go. But come back".

He walks away, towards danger, and possibly death. That silvery chord begins to unwind, stretching between the two of them. But this time, he looks back, raises his hand, and waves.


	9. Dead Man's Ball

**A/N: This chapter was a long time coming, but you'll all be glad to know that the story's pretty much written, and I am very excited to share the remaining chapters with you in quick succession. Thanks again for following this little tale of hope, and my exploration of moments of joy. I hope you like where it's taking you. ~ CeeCee**

They all wait there, in the prison yard, until the five retreating figures were less than specks on the horizon. Carol sighs, careful not to let the tears spill onto her cheeks. _May be time for that later, but not now. _She realizes that she's toughened up over the winter. She's not sure if that's good or bad.

She assesses the group in the yard, which is larger than the group that's just left. They're a bit of a motley crew: she, Hershel, Beth, Carl, Glenn and, of course, baby Judith; Axel, now aimless and somewhat lost after the death of his final inmate comrade; Tyrese, the girl Sasha, who Carol believes is related to Tyrese in some way, and Ben, the young guy traveling with them, who's said very little.

Tyrese and Glenn suddenly begin talking at the same time:

"So, what do you guys think about heading-"

"Sasha had a good idea about a place we could –"

Both men pause, grin sheepishly, and gesture for the other to continue. Carol smiles a little; no two men in their group could be more physically opposite, but both of them have an innate politeness. Glenn finally wins the little battle of cordiality and Tyrese nods and continues.

"So, what I was saying, was, Sasha, Ben, Julie and I – Julie's the one we lost after Carl here found us – we passed a small, gated estate house about, oh, twelve, fifteen miles southwest of here a few days ago. Defensively, it looked like a pretty good set-up." He pauses, mulls it over. "Well, at least for awhile, and at least from walkers – other people, that'd be another story."

"Why didn't you guys stop there then?" Glenn asks.

"We didn't have the manpower for the clean out. The perimeter gate was solid – metal, at least 15 feet high – and even the most wasted geek wouldn't be able to squeeze through the bars. But there were a sizeable number of 'em wandrin' around inside, on the grounds. Looked like there was about an acre or so of land, and there were some remnants of tents and camping gear. Best I can guess, the family that lived there probably holed up in the house for awhile, started lettin' folks stay on their lawn. They musta let someone infected in at some point, and the whole thing went to shit," Tyrese shrugs.

"So…you think we could manage walker clean up now?" Carl jumps into the conversation.

"Yeah, man, I think we could do it," Tyrese responds, nodding slowing. Carol notices he doesn't treat Carl like a child, but like an equal; well, at least like a younger man. _Guess that's something else we'll need to get used in this world_, she thinks, _childhood will be MUCH shorter. _She looks at Judith, blowing spit bubbles in Beth's arms, and wonders when the little girl will hold her first knife. Or kill her first walker.

Glenn speaks, "How many would you say there are, Tyrese?"

"Dunno exactly, as there's gotta be at least a handful of them inside the buildings. There's a main house, pretty big, with an attached garage, along with some sorta shed or outbuilding. We saw, what, Sasha, forty or so?"

"Yeah, 'bout that. Maybe fifty, tops," Sasha speaks up, thinking. "We can probably guess there's at least another twenty or so wanderin' around inside the main house, don't ya think?" Tyrese exchanges a glance with Ben, and both men nod in agreement with Sasha.

"So…ok, at least forty, but maybe as many as seventy," Glenn muses over this. He looks around at the group, assessing. "How prepped are you guys when it comes to hand-to-hand walker elimination?" He directs this question at Sasha. "On our side, we've got myself, Carol, Carl…and Axel? What do you think?"

"Suppose I could manage, if I had myself a good knife or bat or somethin'," Axel agrees.

"All three of us, for sure," Sasha replies.

"So seven of us, at least forty roaming walkers in a gated yard; inside's a big question mark," Tyrese says. "We take care of the yard first, then check for open points of egress in the house?"

"Yeah," Glenn responds. "Hershel, you and Beth, you'll need to wait in one of the vehicles with Judith. If something goes wrong, you get outta there, find somewhere to hole up until Rick and the others come back. _If_ they come back." Carol can tell Glenn is trying very hard not to think about Maggie, and the danger she's heading into.

"They'll come back, son," Hershel responds, hugging Beth with one arm. "I gotta believe that."

"Yeah, well," Glenn's face is pinched and distracted. "Let's get going. Less talkin', more doing."

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

Carol stands, with the others, outside of the high, wrought-iron fence surround the house. Tyrese and Sasha had described the place well: beyond the curlicued iron gates, a white-stoned drive curves up towards a large, rambling brick house (_mansion, more like¸_ Carol thinks) with a connected garage and a sizeable storage building, in the same red brick, slightly to the west of the main abode.

The lawn is littered with the remnants of a sprawling campground: collapsed tents, ashy fire pits, clothing and bags scattered like confetti on the grass. No one living has been beyond these gates in some time.

The walkers, for the most part, are centralized near the buildings, several hundred yards away. They haven't noticed the group of live humans, standing in a straggling line, staring at them. Most of them move in that hazy way they have, mobile only because of some distant, reptilian memory that mocks actual life. Carol thinks back to Jenner at the CDC, showing them the image of his wife's reanimated brain: just fuzzy, dim fire at the base of the skull. _Not much, and not human, _Carol reminds herself.

"They all look pretty bad," Axel pipes up. "I mean, I know they're geeks, but – they look worse'n usual."

"Think about it," Ben chimes in. "They've been stuck in there, how long? Almost a year? Without anything…anyone…to eat. Geeks seem to last awhile, even without eating, but these guys must be pretty hungry."

"Yeah, and hopefully, weaker because of it," Tyrese nods.

"Or, they could be more aggressive, more desperate," Glenn muses. "In any case, let's do this." He hands out weapons, passing Carol a large crowbar. "Hang on to your knife, but it'd be best if you can take them out without getting that close." She nods, appreciating the heft of the iron in her hands.

"Everyone ready?" Tyrese looks around and boosts Sasha over the fence, looks questioningly at Carol, who places her foot in his proffered hand. He hurtles her over the gate. _Here we go, _she thinks as she scrambles to the ground. He helps the rest of them over, then pulls himself up, jumps to the lawn.

"Tyrese – you, Ben, Sasha and Axel, take the area in front of the main house," Glenn barks out as they begin jogging towards the walkers, "Carol – you, me and Carl, we'll take the area by the garage and that shed over there."

Their group fans out, and Carol's line of vision narrows down to the task at hand. She's dimly aware of the familiar wet thuds filling the air, as the others' weapons connect with the walkers' rotting skulls. She moves towards a trio of walkers, shambling in a tight group. One, which in life had been a young woman with pale, long hair, turns her cloudy eyes towards Carol. The left half of her head is blackened and rotted away. Carol takes advantage of this, swings the crowbar with all of her strength. The female walker's skull crumples, right before she falls to the lawn.

She's now got the attention of the walker's compatriots, two larger, male walkers, both, conspicuously, in blood-stained tuxedos that are little more than rags. She registers this with disbelief, then slams the crowbar into one's eye.

Glenn is beside her now, laughing a bit maniacally, "Musta been a killer party!" He cackles, bringing his bat down on the other tuxedoed zombie.

"Carol, Glenn!" Carl, his voice panicked. Carol turns and sees why. He's surrounded by a loose circle of six or seven walkers. Two more lay decommissioned at his feet. She and Glenn sprint over, taking out several walkers simultaneously. Carl, regaining his confidence, plunges the long hunting knife Glenn gave him into one of the smaller walkers. In life, he'd probably been about Carl's age.

The three of them rush towards the garage, where a few geeks are clawing vacantly at the panes of glass, trying mindless to gain access. Carl quickly shoves his knife up and into the back of one walker's neck. Glenn knock two of the walkers down, and Carol quickly swoops in, smashing their skulls into the ground.

The gravel path in front of the house and garage are now littered with the no-longer-walking dead. Carol catches her breath, leaning an arm on Glenn. Tyrese, Sasha, Ben and Axel have cleared the way towards the front door of the house, and are waving them over. Carol mentally takes note of the bodies as the lope over. They've taken out at least forty of them in the initial assault.

"All good? No one bit, no one scratched?" Tyrese questions the three of them, wiping sweat from his face. The seven of them nod and smile tiredly at each other. Carol glances back at the road, where Hershel is standing tensely by the car containing Beth and Judith. She raises one hand in a wave, and he waves back. She can almost see the relief on his face from here.

"Ok, now inside," Glenn says to them. Then he starts laughing, a little crazily, again. "What were these people _doing_? Holding a zombie fundraising event?" He's prodding the prone body of a female walker, decked out in a slinky, red silk dress, with one ratty sneaker. "No wonder they're toast." He shakes his head.

They head as a group towards the front door. Glenn places his ear against the painted wood. "Can't hear much; wood's too thick. Be ready." He kicks it open, and it's like opening the gates of hell during a celebration: several dozen emaciated walkers pour out, all dressed in frayed, tattered finery.

Carol takes out one, two, three, mindlessly, trying to ignore her screaming shoulder muscles, which are begging her to stop.

"AaaaaAAAAAAAHHH," Ben screams as several walkers drag him to the ground, ripping into his shoulder. A splutter of red shoots into the air.

"Shit, shit, shit," Tyrese slices through the necks of two walkers with his axe; Sasha is screaming as she pulls Ben away. The young man gropes blindly at his friend's arm, blood drenching his entire right side. He shudders, stills. "Get out of the way, Sasha. Don't look." Tyrese raises his axe, gazing sadly at Ben.

"TYRESE! DON'T!" Sasha wails as the weapon whooshes through the air.

"Shit," Tyrese says tiredly.

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

Glenn, Carol, Axel and Carl stand in the enormous kitchen as the sun sets in a blaze of red. The group spent the remainder of the afternoon piling the dead, along with their detritus, into a large pile behind the house. A gruesome bonfire blazes beyond the sliding glass doors leading into the lushly overgrown backyard.

Hershel snores loudly on a couch in one of the many sitting rooms on the ground floor. Beth has taken Judith to an opulently decorated nursery on the second floor.

Tyrese and Sasha are bowed over a small gravesite. They had wanted to bury Ben alone. Carol can respect that.

"I…I gotta go lay down," Axel looks like he's going to fall over. Carol realizes this man probably hasn't been beyond the prison gates in years. He's likely exhausted as much by the shock of actually seeing that world is riddled with the walking dead as he's physically tired. It's one thing to hear it, another entirely to see it. He wanders away in search of a place to rest.

"I want to go see Judith," Carl says suddenly. Carol smiles a little at that. She thinks the appeal in seeing his sister also sits with her babysitter.

"Do you want something to eat, Carl?" She hands him a few small jars of applesauce. This place is stocked to the gills. If it weren't for the threat of the living monsters, not the dead, their group could stay here indefinitely. _Certainly more charming than the prison, _she thinks. He begins to shake his head, but she has his number. "Bring some up to Beth, when you go to see your little sister." The boy now takes the proffered jars eagerly, heads up the stairs.

She lights a few lamps, places them around the darkening room. She looks at Glenn, who's deep in thought. Tyrese and Sasha are standing, arms around each other, by Ben's grave. She hands Glenn a can of baby potatoes, opens one for herself.

"Eat. Zombie slaying burns lots of calories," she pops one in her mouth. "You and me – we'll take first watch?"

Glenn nods. "Don't think you'll be able to sleep either, huh?" She shakes her head. There's a restless tugging at her heart, and she knows where it leads. Somewhere in the direction of Woodbury.

"This place is great, but what do you think they were _doing¸ _Carol? What's with the tuxes and the ball gowns?" He shakes his head.

She thinks on it, watching Tyrese and Sasha head slowly back to the house, watching the fire from the dead swirl up into the blackening sky.

"Maybe…maybe they just figured, the hell with it. Go out in style, one last hurrah?"

"Dead Man's Ball," Glenn intones blandly. They both look at each other, and start laughing. It's not much. But it's something. _Dead Man's Ball, indeed. _


	10. Not With a Whimper, But a Bang

**A/N: This chapter was like pulling teeth for me, but I finally got it out. The final three chapters, which I will be posting tomorrow and this weekend, I couldn't write fast enough. I knew where I wanted these two to end up, but Daryl needed time to deal with his anger at EVERYTHING and I wanted to let him do that. I hope you enjoy. ~ CeeCee  
**

Chaos, not the Governor, reigns in Woodbury as the sun sinks along the bloody horizon. They are a congregation without a preacher, a bus full of children without their teacher.

Rick's group of not-so-merry bandits waits beyond the town's protected perimeter, but it's easy to see that defense from the outer world is not the concern it was, even a few days ago: one agitated female gunman stands on the wall. She keeps turning around, glancing behind her towards the town beyond, leaving herself completely open for enemy attack. Daryl thinks, coldly, if he had to, he could take her down with one shot.

"They got no idea what t'do," Merle mutters, and Daryl can detect disappointment in his voice. "It's all fallin' apart in there."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Michonne murmurs. Her hatred for his brother radiates off of her as a palpable force. Daryl simultaneously despises her for it and completely understands it.

She had also dropped the bomb on the way over that Andrea was alive and well, and screwing the Governor. Apparently, she had been in the death arena, in plain sight, while he was two inches away from death at his brother's hand. _Was I really? Would Merle have gone through with it, if it came to that? _Daryl, in the most secret corner of his heart, is glad he never found out. Part of him is still that 11-year-old boy who followed his big brother with the thoughtless hope and hero-worship of the young and beaten.

Merle's right, though. The sounds coming from beyond the fortified defense wall are ones of panic and confusion. It's clear that the Governor's grip is weakening on the townspeople.

Rick gestures to Daryl, who creeps towards him. "We gotta take that woman down quietly," he gestures to the wall. "Go over the wall, into the main street. Maggie and Michonne say the Governor and his main cadre of guys will probably be holed up in the third building on the left side of the street. We make sure they're in there, eliminate the whole building."

Daryl nods, but Merle, who's been eavesdropping, shakes his head. "You don't think the Gov'nor can see the writing on the wall? He's losing these people. Can'tcha _hear _it in there?" Almost as if emphasize his point, there's the tinkle and shatter of glass, someone screaming. Before their group can register their disbelief, the single guard on the wall jumps down on the town side, out of their view.

"Okay, let's go up and over," Rick gestures and everyone creeps in a breathless line towards the wall. "Whatever's happenin' over there, we should use it to our advantage."

Daryl heaves himself up and peers down at the town, along with the others. It's like Main Street USA in hell down there: dozens of people are running, aimlessly, smashing windows with broken pieces of furniture. Others are huddled in small groups, especially those standing with small children, staring blank-eyed and passive as glass shatters and fires blaze up around them. Daryl would feel sorry for them if they hadn't been shrieking for his blood twenty-four hours ago.

A rotund, older man, wearing nothing but saggy red boxer shorts and a strappy tee, stumbles out of one of the houses, staggering. He's blindingly drunk, loosely gripping a bottle with the remnants of a fifth of whiskey in it. "Where's the Governor, goddammit!" He slurs, and a few of the townspeople turn and look at him with interest. He staggers unevenly to the middle of the street, waving his bottle like a victory flag. "Where is he, say I? These...these…" the man searches for the right word, and a foggy memory pops to the surface, "...these TERRORISTS come in, wreak havoc, create discord…and where's our fearless leader? We…need…the…GOVERNOR! The Governor! The GOVERNOR!"

His chanting was having an effect on those around him: both groups of people, the ones rampaging aimlessly and the others, standing passively, took up his call. Soon, nearly sixty people are rhythmically shouting the word into the darkening sky.

Suddenly, an uneven rumbling sound erupts from the distant edges of the long road. The mass of people below, as well as Rick's group, who are now, unnoticed, standing along the perimeter wall, weapons at the ready, gaze breathlessly as a gigantic, fortified cammo'd truck appears. And it's moving fast. _Really _fast. Before anyone can react, the man in the ratty boxer shorts is crushed beneath its wheels.

The four doors of the truck pop open like a round of gunfire; the Governor, a patch covering his right eye, gets out, along with six other men. Daryl marvels at the man's calm. He watches the Governor meander into the center of the crowd, walking around the man's prone body with little more than a glance. _Like he hit a piece of garbage in the road. Ain't nothin' to him. None of these people are, 'cept as pawns in his game. _ Daryl takes a quick look at Merle, who's mesmerized by the appearance of his (_former?_) leader. Disgust and adulation battle for supremacy on Merle's face as he stares down at the scene below, and Daryl realizes something: the look on Merle's face? That's exactly how he, Daryl looks…when he's lookin' at Merle. It's like a meal you can't stop eating, even though you know it's poisoning you.

"The Governor is back," this nondescript-looking maniac practically whispers. "And…if you haven't learned. I am watching. I am always watching. I am your leader. I know everything you do. When you do it. Who you do it with. Remember that. Remember who's in charge here," he speaks forcefully, rhythmically.

"What are we waiting for? Shoot him, Rick," Michonne mutters. If she had a gun on her, the Governor would already be dead. Rick shakes his head, as if to clear a fog. _He had us listenin' to his b.s., too, _Daryl marvels, lifting his crossbow, honing in on the eye patch. _As good of a target as any._

Rick and Maggie are also leveling and aiming their weapons, ready to fire. But someone is being dragged by one of the Governor's henchmen out of the back of the truck. Blond, blindfolded. Andrea. The Governor grabs her roughly and holds her in front of him. The clear shot it gone.

"You idiots! He knows we're here!" Merle rasps out. And indeed, he does. He knew all along.

"The terrorists are back! Andrea, who we thought was one of us, has been working for _them_ the entire time," he points his finger up at the group on the wall. "Stop questioning your leader, and excise the real poison. Kill them! Kill them all – except the sheriff. Leave him for me." Without a warning, he slits Andrea's throat, shoves the knife into the side of her face.

_Goddamn, _Daryl thinks, aims his crossbow. Takes out one, two of the men that came out of the army truck. Maggie and Rick are firing their guns; Michonne leaps from the wall, jumps into the fray, her katana slicing through the rabble like a strong swimmer through still water. Maggie cries out, spins, nearly lose her balance. Daryl reaches out and steadies her, his hand coming away slick and red. She's been hit.

"It bad?" he asks.

"Stings like a bitch, but I am ok," she grimaces as blood rolls down her shoulder and drips off her elbow. She fires again into the fray, taking a guy with a rifle out.

Daryl can vaguely here the Governor bellowing. Merle is still just standing on the wall. Not fighting for or with either side. "TRAITORS EVERYWHERE YOU TURN!" The Governor is shrieking, surrounded by a rush of town folk. "Merle! Another one of your own, turned against you! And his terrorist brother!" The Governor, in his zeal, doesn't notice Merle's inertia, but now Daryl feels the fury of the crowd below turn towards him.

"Daryl!" Both Rick and Merle shout his name at the same time, from either side. The past and the future, with him stuck in the middle. He sees the three remaining members of the Governor's inner cadre focus their guns at him, like three black holes to infinity. The bullets roar towards him but he's tackled to the wall roughly. Merle is on top of him, unbalanced, sliding over the edge, towards the raging crowd.

"I owed ya one," Merle cackles madly, trying to gain his balance. "I owed ya one, little brother." He slides further over the edge. Daryl desperately grabs at him, but the angle is bad; he's being crushed and pulled forward by Merle. Rick and the others are firing rapidly, picking out the crowd. Daryl wraps his right forearm around Merle's, struggling to keep him on the wall. A terrific jolt goes through his body as the crowd yanks Merle to the ground. Daryl is left with the metal contraption and throws it to the side, rises shakily to his feet, aims his crossbow wildly.

He lowers it almost immediately. Merle is being hoisted by a half a dozen people towards the Governor. And he's _smiling_, grinning crazily up at them on the wall.

"You people!" He screams hoarsely, rummaging around in his pockets. "You people! The problem with you, is ya'll don't think big enough!" He proffers two grenades, like some secret, juicy fruit he's been keeping for himself. "Get the hell outta here, Daryl!"

"MEEEEERRRLLLLLLEEEEE! NOOOOOOO!"

ooooooOOOOOooooo

The morning is already warm, and Rick, Daryl, Maggie, Michonne and Tyrese, who's collected them at the prison two days after the decimation of Woodbury, are somber and sweaty.

"Nice digs," Rick notes.

"Not a bad spot," Tyrese nods, helping Maggie over the iron gate. "At least, for a little bit. Guess we'll have to go back to the prison, eventually."

"Sorry about Ben," Rick says. Tyrese rubs his face.

"Yeah, man, and we all thought we were pretty much okay after clearin' the yard. Sasha's takin' it hard. They were friends," the big man shakes his head. "Sorry about your brother." He turns toward Daryl.

"What would you know about it?" Daryl feels nothing but a sticky, thick ball of anger in his gut. Nothing, no one, is going to take that anger away from him. It's all he's got now. He pulls himself over the gate, lands next to Maggie.

She helps him to his feet, sizes him up. "What Merle did? He's a hero, Daryl."

"No, no he _ain't. _My brother ain't no hero. He never was," he's just so _angry. _ "He was crazy, he didn't think, he, he just –"

"Saved your life," Rick interjects.

"Don't you get it? _She _gets it," he gestures to Michonne. Someone even quieter than he is. "My brother didn't pull those grenade pins to do the right thing, to be honorable. He did it – dammit – he did it because when you corner a bear, taunt it, poke it with a stick, it'll come after you, its own safety be damned."

They're all standing there by the gate. Suddenly, the front door of the house opens, and Hershel's form appears. Maggie dashes towards him. They all follow her at a slower pace.

Michonne is walking next to Daryl. She looks at him for a moment. "The grenades, taking the crowd down with him," she says. "That was for him. But on the wall? When they were all firing on you? That was for you." She doesn't wait for a response, just walks ahead, keeping pace with Rick.

The others are emerging from the house: Beth, Sasha, Axel. Carl, who runs to Rick for a hug and a slap on the back. Daryl doesn't see her. He's not sure that he wants to. What he wants is to be pissed off. Pissed at himself, at Merle, at the Governor, at Rick, at the freakin' world. This piece of shit world. He kicks up a spray of white stones.

Glenn appears at the door, with Judith in his arms. "My god...Maggie!" He runs to her, and the baby gets squished between them. Daryl's about to take L'il Asskicker from Glenn, but the baby seems content enough. "Your arm!" he exclaims.

"It's nothin'," she shakes his concern off, smiling through her tears. "Where's Carol?" Daryl notices her eyes flit towards him when she asks the question. Almost as if she knew he wanted to ask, but couldn't.

"Oh, Carol's new obsession is the storage shed over there. She thinks she can re-outfit everyone in our group and equip the prison with some modern luxuries," Glenn smiles, not taking his eyes off Maggie.

"You look pretty good with a baby in your arms," Maggie beams at him, and the group laughs.

"Let's not be gettin' any crazy ideas," Hershel mutters, but he's smiling.

Daryl can hardly stand it. Maybe Merle had it right. Babies? Who would want to bring a baby into this world?

"Well, maybe we should make things official, then. Less scandal in it," Glenn grins at her. "Marry me."

Wolf whistles and applause. Daryl feels like he's lost his mind. What was wrong with them? Couldn't they see there was no point? To any of it?

"Ok," Maggie is laughing and crying, kissing Glenn and Judith, her father and sister. "Rick, will you do the honors?"

"Well, Maggie, I don't really have the authority to –" and suddenly everyone's laughing. Even Michonne's still mask of a face bears something resembling a smile. Rick realizes what he's said. "Okay, okay, I guess my job description now include post-apocalyptic wedding services."

They all head inside the house in a loud, cheerful group, not noticing that he's not with them. He stands there for a minute, kicking the ground, sending up spray after spray of white stones. Some hit his legs, arms, even his face. But he doesn't care.

The door to the storage building opens and Carol walks out. She's fifty feet away, but she may as well be on the moon. He can't reach her, not now. She makes a small noise, but doesn't move towards him. He looks up at her. And he can see she knows, about Merle. That Merle's gone, this time for good. Her face changes, a look of deep sorrow crosses over its features. She nods, smiles sadly at him, and goes back into the shed.

Daryl stands in the gravel driveway, kicking at the stones. The ball of anger in his stomach weighing him down, the silvery thread of hope unraveling, unbroken, towards the storage shed.

Anger and hope, in equal measure.


	11. Everywhere You Turn

******A/N: So, thanks to you all for reading, and especially to my reviewers; it makes me feel like I am sending this little story of mine out to each of you, rather than into the void of the Interwebs. This, I must admit, was my favorite chapter to write. Once I heard the Ray LaMontagne song "Hold You in My Arms", I knew where this story was going. The next three chapters (the last three) are each inspired by a verse of the song. The first is set out below. ~ CeeCee.**

**When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears  
It was easy to see that you'd been crying  
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe it reigns  
But who really profits from the dying  
I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold you forever  
I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold you in my arms forever.**

**© Ray LaMontagne **

She's begun to think of the storage shed as a treasure trove. It's full of useless, beautiful things, all the more beautiful because they have no practical value. Whatever happened to these people in death, in life, they were certainly pleasure-seekers. She's moving some of the boxes around, remembering that somewhere, there's at least one marked "Party Dresses". She's hoping to find something for Maggie to wear for the wedding.

She smiles, the idea of a wedding so foreign in this time, but also wonderful. She'd left the main house in the early evening, after helping the girls and Tyrese (who surprised her by being a creative and interested cook) try to prepare something special for the celebration. She had stood on the gravel path and her eyes instinctively landed on Daryl's tent, under the large maple towards the front gate. She hadn't seen him since their moment in the driveway yesterday morning, but she knew he'd refused to stay inside the house. The little camp he'd set up in the yard was silent and unused looking. She had kept herself busy, resisting the urge to seek him out. He was just so hurt, so angry. He wasn't ready for anyone to start poking around in his wounds just yet.

"Aha!" she now exclaims triumphantly. She pulls the large box she's been hunting for from a stack of a few others. She drops it on top of a box marked "Scuba Gear". _Well, really, at least they had a good time until they got eaten by walkers, _she thinks, ruefully. She rips the tape sealing the box and lifts the lid, exclaims with delight.

The box is crammed full of dresses in every color, made of those types of fabric you can't help but reach out and touch: silk, satin, tulle, velvet. She pulls out a dark green velvet gown, not remotely what she's looking for, but holds it up; the brushed fabric catches the light of the setting sun coming through the high windows, which burnishes it orangey-brown. _So gorgeous, _she thinks holding it up to herself. The woman that owned these dresses had been slim, like she and Maggie, but much taller: the dress drags in the dust on the concrete floor. _So useless, but so gorgeous. _A pink paperclip. She smiles, sets the dress aside.

She digs through the box, with a mission; she pauses only once again on a dress for selfish reasons. A simple, short, sleeveless dress with an a-line skirt. White polka-dots on a grey-blue background. She lays it to the side, brushing the wrinkles out of it, wondering how the silk would feel against her skin. She's never owned, never could imagine owning, something so perfect.

She's nearly at the bottom of the enormous box when she finds what she's looking for: an airy, white shift with cap sleeves. Probably something the women who owned these dresses wore on her boat, with blue-and-white espadrilles and $300 sunglasses. But Carol grins, imagining Maggie, barefoot in the summer grass, looking at Glenn and bursting with love.

She hears the door creak open behind her, and turns, saying, "Look what I found! I think it'll be perfect on you…" she trails off. It's not Maggie standing in the doorway; it's Daryl.

"I don't think that's my size," he says, but there's no fun in it. He looks like a wild animal that's been hunkering down in the woods: haunted, hunted, terrified and plain worn out. He just stands there, leaning against the closed door, his eyes bloodshot, face naked with misery. "What are ya doin'?"

"Trying to find something for Maggie to wear tomorrow," she says gently. She doesn't want it to seem that they're dancing on Merle's grave.

"Oh, yeah, the _weddin,'_" he says, a sneer in his voice. "Like that makes any sense." He folds his arms tightly across his chest.

"Some things aren't about sense," she says, taking the white dress, carefully placing it on a hanger, and hooking it over the windowsill to glow in the sun. She starts packing up the other dresses; logically, she knows she can just leave them out, for the mice and moths to get to; but she can't bring herself to do it. Can't bring herself to let them mar the gowns' useless beauty. "Some things are about love, or about beauty…or…or just about hope. Even if it doesn't last. Just about being hopeful, for a moment."

"You said that b'fore. But that's a joke. Who are we kiddin'? The world ain't never been good, not to us, and that's even truer now," he's head is tipped backwards, and she can see the tears that are threatening to spill down his cheeks. He kicks, kicks again, restlessly, with one booted foot at the door, the ground.

"Maybe the world, no. Maybe not Merle, not until it was too late. Never Ed. But why can't we all be good to each other, what's left of us? Even if we carry the scars of all the bad stuff?" She wishes he would look at her. But he's afraid. Of those tears, that he can't hide, can't cram back into his broken heart. She turns away from him to finish with the dresses. Finally, the only one left is the lovely grayish polka-dotted one that caught her eye earlier. She hesitates for a moment, holding it up.

"What's that one for?" he says from behind her.

She doesn't turn around, just stares at the dress in her extended arms. "Nothing…no one. I just thought it was pretty. Was thinkin' about wearing it tomorrow, but that's not a very practical idea." She sighs, gently placing the dress on top of the others.

"Try it on," he says, softly. He's stopped kicking the door.

Her heart leaps into her throat, begins to pulse fiercely. She looks at the dress, her back still to him. She takes a breath to calm herself. She knows what he's asking. It's permission, almost like praying. She lifts her shirt over her head, reaches a shaking hand to the dress, sliding it onto her body. It's cool against her warm skin. She wiggles out of her jeans, and reaches around to zip the dress up.

And suddenly he's there; his hand clumsily brushes hers away. He places one hand on her waist, the other on the zipper. He slowly slides it up, stops halfway. Carol holds her breath. He lifts his hand from the zipper and she feels his fingers hovering over her back. They land, barely touching, on the ridges of her spine. His fingers trace each slight bump downwards, and now the zipper is retreating down, back to her waist.

She is quiet and so, so still. All she hears is the rush of her beating heart, the whisper of his callused fingers on her skin and his breath. Then she feels the first warm tear splash onto her back, then another.

He backs quickly away. "I'm gonna ruin it." She hears something tumble to the ground. She spins around, the dress falling open in the back. He's sitting on a large trunk, the smaller boxes he's knocked over falling to the floor. His face is in his hands.

"No you aren't, Daryl," she walks over to him, kneels down in front of him. She takes his hands from his face, replaces them with her own. "You're not gonna ruin anything." She brushes his tears away with a quick sweep of her thumbs. And then, she brushes the anger in his eyes away, by placing her lips on his.


	12. A Poor Man's Food

**A/N: We're almost there, readers! I present you with the penultimate chapter of "Pink Paperclips". The action will back up a few moments, so we can get Daryl's perspective on what's happening. **

**I've also included the second verse of "Hold You In My Arms" below, as it's been a primary inspiration for these final chapters for me. ~CeeCee**

**When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions  
It's my worried mind that you quiet  
Place your hands on my face  
Close my eyes and say  
Love is a poor man's food  
Don't prophesize  
I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold you forever  
And I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold you forever**

**© Ray LaMontagne**

"But why can't we all be good to each other, what's left of us? Even if we carry the scars of all the bad stuff?" She's looking at him earnestly, and he's doing his damndest to avoid catching her eye. These tears, these tears – he has no room for them in his angry heart. Especially not in front of her. Something in him wants desperately to hold onto his anger, like a safety blanket he's always had, and he childishly refuses to give it up.

She thankfully turns away and begins packing up the dresses scattered everywhere. He watches her small form as she carefully folds each garment; he's restless: rhythmically kicking the wooden door with one booted foot.

He notices she keeps passing over one dress to put others away first. He might not have, usually, but it's the same color as her eyes, with little white dots scattered all over it. Finally, it's the only one left. She holds it up, her profile slightly turning towards him. He can see the happiness the dress brings out in her. He can see that she really doesn't want to put it away. _What did you come in here for, really, Daryl? To show her how right you are, to be royally pissed off at everything? When she's just lookin' at that dress like it's the best thing she's ever seen? Or is it because _she's _the best thing _you've _ever seen, when she's lookin' at the dress with a smile on her face?_

"What's that one for?" he asks, because he knows…something in him, knows. She wants him to ask. Because the dress means something to her. Because _he_ means something to her.

She doesn't turn around, just stares at the dress in her extended arms. "Nothing…no one. I just thought it was pretty. Was thinkin' about wearing it tomorrow, but that's not a very practical idea." She sighs, gently placing the dress on top of the others.

"Try it on," he says, almost tripping over the words. He realizes he's stopped kicking the door. He realizes…maybe…just maybe, he's not all that interested in being pissed off anymore. He's interested in seeing her in that dress, right now.

Something tenses minutely in her, as if she's more awake than she was a few seconds ago. She pauses only briefly, slides her shirt over her head. She pulls the dress on, slides out of her jeans. And suddenly, that sticky, hard ball of anger in his guts slowly starts to unravel. She _is_ the best thing he's ever seen, standing barefoot in this lamp-lit, dusty shed at the end of the world.

She's struggling to close the dress and before he knows what he's doing, before he can think, he is there, one hand sliding over the silk at her waist, the other pawing her hand away from the zipper. She is so still, so quiet. He begins closing the dress slowly, but he stares at her back, at the ridges of her spine. He stops, raises one calloused hand, hovers, so afraid but so hungry, so desperately hungry for the feeling of those tiny raised bumps along the curve of her back.

Hunger wins over fear, and his hand strokes the line of her back, brushing down those tiny bumps like small hills. His hand, almost of its own accord, is sliding the zipper back down towards her waist. He can feel the pulse of her heart, Carol's warm, unique, wounded heart, radiating into his hand. Her heart, in his hand.

And then, the tears, hot with shame and guilt and that fading but still-present anger, the tears fall, splash on her back. "I'm gonna ruin it," he cries wildly, not knowing if he means the dress, or her, or his own mighty fortress of scorn and rage. He swings his arms blindly, knocking boxes and crates over, slumping down onto a large trunk.

But she is there. Holding his face. "No you aren't, Daryl," she says. Her grey eyes are the world now, her fingers brushing the tears away are a balm. "You aren't gonna ruin anything." Her warm lips are on his, answering all of his questions. Quelling all of his fears.

He reaches out and grabs her, pulls her closer, stumbles a little off of the seat. They are both kneeling in the dust, in the semi-dark, in this shed at the end of the world. And he kisses her back, unfolds the dress that's the same color as her eyes, and pulls it slowly down. It makes a soft whisper as it hits the ground.

And then it's just her. And him. And Daryl is hungry, and happy, and sad, and yearning and scared. And it's like coming home. A home he's never had. A home he's always wanted.

Daryl Dixon isn't angry anymore.


	13. This Sense of Sadness

**A/N: So, here it is. The final chapter, lucky thirteen. I appreciate everyone who's taken this little journey with me, with these characters we all love. **

**I wish you all many pink paperclips in your lives, those little moments of joy. **

**~CeeCee**

**So now we see how it is  
This fist begets the spear  
Weapons of war  
Symptoms of madness  
Don't let your eyes refuse to see  
Don't let your ears refuse to hear  
Oh you ain't never going to shake this sense of sadness  
I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold on forever  
And I could hold you in my arms  
I could hold on forever **

**© Ray LaMontagne**

**"Wagonwheel" lyrics used herein © Bob Dylan**

Carol wakes at dawn, alone, nestled in a pile of party dresses. She sits up, blinking, velvet and tulle falling away around her. She notices that the polka-dotted dress (the dress she may well credit with changing her life) is hanging neatly on a hanger next to the one she selected yesterday for Maggie. She grins hugely at it.

She wiggles into her jeans and throws her tee shirt back on. She sensed, rather than saw, Daryl slip away, from her side, from the warm cocoon they'd created with their bodies and the upturned box of dresses, and back into the night. But she knows in her heart, he's not really gone for good.

She walks to the door, and notices a torn sheet of paper, stuck to the inside with her knife, the one that Daryl had given her. She pulls it free, reads it, and laughs loudly.

"Need to go get something. See you later at the damn wedding."

She shakes her head, pockets the knife – and the note. Last night had certainly changed many things, for both of them. But in many ways, in the best ways, Daryl was still going to be Daryl.

Carol grabs the two dresses, some other odds and ends she's found, and heads out into the morning. It's going to be a good day.

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

Hershel stands in the gravel driveway, smoking a homemade cigarette and looking at the sunrise. He raises a hand in greeting as Carol approaches.

"Mornin'," he says, taking a relishing drag on the smoke.

"Morning. Ready for the big day?" She smiles. "Didn't know you had the habit," she nods, gesturing at the cigarette.

"Well, back in the day, these went hand in glove with my other, far-less-controllable habit," he shrugs ruefully, and Carol knows he's talking about his drinking problem. "I mostly cut out the smokes when I stopped drinkin'," he pauses, inhales, "But you know what? After gettin' your leg sawed off to avoid becomin' a zombie, a celebratory cigarette every now and then doesn't seem so bad. It is my daughter's weddin' day, after all." He smiles at her.

"That reminds me," she says, almost-businesslike. "Here you go." She hands him a clean white shirt, a blue bowtie, new suspenders.

"You know Glenn's gonna tease you somethin' fierce," he laughs, takes the clothing from her. "He's waiting for you to come out of that shed claimin' you found a cure to bein' a walker in there."

"It's a pretty amazing place," she responds. _Especially last night_. "But it's not miraculous. I _did _find something for Maggie. Look!" She holds the white shift up, beaming at Hershel.

Hershel sizes up the simple dress, and turns his gaze back on her. She can see he's got tears in his eyes. "Thank goodness for you, Carol. Thank goodness for all of your worryin' and motherin' – to all of us. It's so easy to forget the small stuff these days. But you remind us. So thank you," he leans over, kisses her cheek, squeezes her shoulder.

"Of course," she responds, moved by the older man's candor. "What else do we have, but each other?"

She walks towards the house, picking up her pace. She can't wait to show Maggie what she's found.

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

She enters the house, and immediately hears music, coming from the kitchen. She finds a cheerful, loud tableau: Rick, bouncing Judith up and down in his arms, and Beth, Carl, Sasha and Axel singing with lusty enjoyment. They're all belting out an old Bob Dylan tune, as Rick dances around the sunny kitchen with his daughter:

"Rock me mama like a wagon wheel,

Rock me mama any way ya feel,

Heeeeeyyy, mama rock me."

"Carol! There you are!" Beth exclaims, grabbing the pile of clothes from her arms and setting them on the counter, taking her hands, and spinning her around as everyone keeps singing.

"Rock me mama like the wind and the rain,

Rock me mama like a southbound train,

Heeeeeeyyy, mama rock me."

"Yeah, Carol, where ya been?" Rick grins at her knowingly.

"Behave," she chides him, smiling, whirling around with Beth.

Two tousled forms appear in the entryway leading from the kitchen upstairs to what Carol has assumed was once the maids' quarters. _Maids' quarters that are nicer than any place _I've _ever lived, _she thinks. Glenn and Maggie are peeking down at the crowd in the kitchen.

"Y'all, it is _early¸_ and y'all are bein' real rowdy," Maggie croaks.

The kitchen goes crazy, stomping their feet, pounding their breakfast silverware on the kitchen table, catcalling the young couple. Judith gets caught up in the adults' excitement, shrieks, grabs a handful of Rick's hair. He winces, but laughs, kisses her nose.

"Hey! You two aren't even supposed to see each other before the wedding!" Beth scolds them over the din, which has brought Tyrese, Hershel and Michonne into the fray. "I am not kidding!" She continues, with romantic teenaged earnestness. She pulls Glenn, who's clad in only old shorts and a white tee shirt down the stairs and away from her sister. "Maggie. Get back upstairs, go on, shoo!"

Carol goes over to the clothes she's brought from the shed, removes the grey polka-dotted dress and the white shift from the pile without Glenn noticing. She joins Maggie on the stairs, playfully pushing her back up.

"Think y'all smart enough to figure out what in that pile belongs to each of you?" She calls down as she herds Maggie up the stairs.

Glenn, who's given up on going back to sleep or spending any more alone time with his betrothed before their nuptials, deadpans, "I hope that pink dress is mine, Carol. It's totally my color."

The room erupts in laughter, which floats up after the two women and into the morning air.

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

"Let's see it!" Maggie exclaims, all signs of sleepiness gone from her excited face. She closes the door of the small but beautifully appointed bedroom she's been sharing with Glenn.

Carol proffers the dress, smiling as Maggie comes over to touch the light, airy fabric. "Can you imagine? I mean, these people just had it stuffed into a box in their shed," Maggie breathes, shakes her head. Like Carol, she's never worn something as fine as this dress her entire life. She holds it up, standing at the window, smiling as the sun shines through it.

"Carol…thank you. Thank you so much," Maggie's got tears streaming down her face, but she's smiling. "Glenn, I know he teases ya about that shed, but really, thank you so much," she places the dress reverently on the bed. She strokes it tenderly, sadly. "I know this should be the happiest day of my life, right? My weddin' day? Hell, the fact that Glenn and I found each other, in this mess, counts for something, right?"

"It counts for everything," Carol says quietly.

Maggie nods, continues, "I _am _happy – and sad – I know that's crazy, but there it is. I knew my momma wouldn't see me get married, but I always imagined Annette – my stepmom, Beth's momma – would be at my wedding. So many people, just gone," she looks up at Carol.

"Thank you, Carol. For the dress, for ev'rythin', for takin' care of us," she stands up. "I wish I woulda known your little girl. She probably loved you whole bunches."

Carol fights the lump in her throat, the deep ache in her heart with Sophia's name on it. "She did, Maggie. She loved me bunches. And I loved her with everything I was. I just wish that everything I was, when Sophia was alive, was enough. But it wasn't. Not nearly," she looks away, deeply saddened. A sadness that will never leave her. "But, like you finding Glenn…after Sophia...after she came outta that barn, I had to make a choice. To live differently or die. I chose the first. And it wasn't easy. It _isn't _easy. It's hard, every single day. To find the things inside yourself and the people around you who make change worthwhile."

Maggie's taken her hands, and both women are crying. But the younger woman gets a gleam in her eye and says, "Yeah? I think maybe you found someone worth changin' for." Maggie giggles, more tears spilling down her cheeks. "I came out last night to help ya search for a dress," she continues, "But before I could get more'n three steps from the house, Daryl went into the shed. I waited…awhile. But he never came out."

Carol gasps, brings her hand up to face, feels the blush heating her cheeks. "I was wondering why you never came out there," she muses seriously, then catches Maggie's eye. The two woman embrace, laughing through their tears.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

Their little group gathers in the front yard as dusk begins to darken the sky. There's a long table, covered in a billowing white tablecloth and heavy with dishes of food, made with creativity and love for the couple they're celebrating. Carol glances around at everyone, more dressed-up and groomed than any of them have been since the world went crazy. Everyone's got a least a little touch of something from the magic boxes in the shed, and it makes Carol glad.

Rick and Carl in clean, pressed polo shirts, Judith in a little summer jumpsuit with strawberries all over it. Sasha and Beth in sweet summer dresses. Maggie and her father are still inside the house, waiting for the word from Rick. A battery-operated stereo wafts music around the twilit yard. _This is a good day, _Carol thinks, again.

"Hey," a voice startles her out of her reverie. Daryl. At her side, his hands behind his back. Hair combed. Wearing a striped button-down shirt, cuffed to the elbows, with a vest over it.

"Well, huh," for once, she's the one with less to say.

"That all ya got?" He's looking at her, in the dress.

"Give me a few seconds to recover," she responds. He looks so handsome, so boyish, so earnest. The fact that he's here, that he's cleaned up: he doesn't want to be on the edge of things anymore.

He clears his throat. "So, ah, I got these. For Maggie. Thought it was part'a the tradition and all, and since these damn fools appear on goin' through with it…" he trails off, brings his hand around, to reveal a small bunch of wildflowers.

She opens her mouth, closes it. She looks at him for a long moment. "She'll love them." She says, finally.

Glenn is jogging over to them now, looking excited and nervous. "Daryl! Hey man, I was wondering where you were," he reaches to shake Daryl's hand, finds the flowers instead.

"These are for Maggie," Daryl mumbles.

"Thanks," Glenn looks bewildered. Now he's sizing Daryl up. "Holy shit, man, I didn't even know you wore shirts that had sleeves." He shakes Daryl's hand, runs back to Beth, who heads towards the house to give the little bouquet to her sister.

"That's one guy who's lookin' for an ass-kickin' on his weddin' day," Daryl mutters.

Carol chokes back laughter. "I think he was just trying to say you look nice. Because you do look nice. Really nice," she smiles up at him, and his face relaxes. She can tell he's got something to say to her, too. He pauses, then speaks softly.

"I – I once said to ya, though I never shoulda, that Sophia wasn't mine, wasn't my problem," he says, and she tries to protest. "No, whatever right I thought I had earned, to say that, I didn't. I wish I had known her better, I wish her life had been different. But we can't keep bein' pissed off about the past." He takes a deep breath, pull his other hand from behind his back to reveal the white flower there.

"Because, well, Sophia never _was_ mine," he pauses, looks at her. "Sophia never was mine, but her momma is." And he tucks the Cherokee rose in his hand behind Carol's ear.

ooooooOOOOOoooooo

Rick married the couple with grace and proper respect, they all say afterwards, as they took their seats around the dinner table.

Carol gazes around her, in the setting sun, on this beautiful summer's day. The married couple are feeding each other pieces of the clobbered-together dinner. Hershel puffing grandly on another cigarette, grinning through the smoke at them. Carl making faces at Judith, who's bouncing up and down in Beth's arms. Rick, Tyrese - and surprisingly, Michonne - clinking bottles of beer together in quiet companionship. Sasha and Axel, an unlikely duo, singing harmony with the song on the little radio.

The petals of the Cherokee rose tickle her face, a beautiful, sad reminder of her beautiful daughter. She gazes down at her hand, linked under the table with Daryl's, their fingers overlapping each other's, connecting them. Right now, he's not looking at her; he's giving Glenn a hard time about something. He turns briefly to face her mid-conversation, not smiling but his eyes soft, gives her hand a gentle squeeze. Turns back to Glenn.

She lifts her gaze back to the people gathered around this table, this small band of friends and near-strangers who are her family now, and thinks about everything this day has given them.

This beautiful night, aglow with fireflies. Singing at the top of their voices in the kitchen. A morning smoke and conversation. This simple meal. A smiling baby. The beauty of a flower. Linked hands, promising love. This aching sadness, that all of them carry in one way or another, than mingles with joy in an impossible cocktail.

All of these things, they are each enough._ More_ than enough. No – they are everything.


End file.
